


Though far away we're still the same

by lloydsglasses



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aromantic, Aromantic Character, Arranged Marriage, Asexual Character, Gen, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Relationship Negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-04-20 23:41:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4806590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lloydsglasses/pseuds/lloydsglasses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, the one in which Bilbo and Thorin get married even though they're not in love.</p><p> <i>He likes to think back on the days before everything became so messy, when talking to Thorin had been comfortable and easy. In Lake-town they had relaxed together over a pipe, and when Bilbo had wanted to know more about Erebor, Thorin told stories from his own childhood, sharing them without the reserve or restraint that he usually maintained over personal matters.</i></p><p> <i>He misses that time of easy camaraderie. He wonders if Thorin misses it too.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **CW for:** The sorts of consent-related issues you might expect to come up in a fic about two people who are forced to get married and feel uncomfortable with some of of things they have to do as a result (though there's nothing sexual). I've put a more detailed warning in the notes at the end of the fic.
> 
> Huge thanks to Northerlywind and ahappytune, my fabulous betas who are fabulous.

Bard has given Bilbo permission to set up a garden in Dale.

“Some plant life would bring cheer to this place,” he says to Bilbo one day, “and when we wintered in the mountain you almost talked my ear off with tales of your garden.”

Bilbo takes the offer at face value, and spends a good long time in conversation with Fulya – a cheerful if somewhat shy woman who had been a flower merchant in Esgaroth before Smaug came – about the sorts of plants that will grow in the East. It’s a nice gesture, and not just because Bilbo has missed gardening; it feels like he’s been given a purpose again, even if it’s only a very small one.

All the same, it will never equal his garden at Bag End.

\--

“Dáin’s Council is insisting that you marry.”

Thorin stares; Bilbo doesn’t think he’s ever seen the king look quite so obviously alarmed. “What?”

Balin sighs expansively. “I’m sorry, Thorin. I tried my best to dissuade them but they’re quite adamant.”

Thorin stares up at Balin some more, expression flickering rapidly between unease and disbelief before hardening into a much more familiar anger. “And what makes them think they have any say in such a matter?” he demands.

The old dwarf exchanges a wary look with his brother, slouching just inside the entrance of the healing tent, before coughing delicately. “They’re worried about the possibility of you succumbing to gold sickness again.”

Whatever retort Thorin was planning seems to die in his throat. He stares speechlessly at Balin again, eyes wide and appalled. Bilbo frowns at both of them from his seat beside Thorin’s bed.

“What’s that got to do with Thorin getting married?” he asks.

“Nothing at all,” mutters Dwalin, leaning heavily upon his war hammer. Balin nods shortly in agreement, but he nonetheless turns to Bilbo to explain.

“Their reasoning was that if Thorin were bound to another it could minimise the risk of madness. You see laddie, it is said by some that Thrain’s love for his wife and children helped stave off the goldlust.”

Thorin laughs very suddenly and without humour. “A ridiculous assumption and Dáin’s lords know it. It’s nothing more than an excuse to keep an eye on me, and to ensure the protection of their own interests; I’m sure many of them have eligible children.” He glances up at Balin for confirmation, scowling darkly when the old dwarf nods in agreement. “I thought my cousin had more integrity than to condone such a decree,” he snarls furiously.

But Balin shakes his head this time. “You speak unfairly, Thorin. Dáin knows you have no wish to marry, and he spoke at length in opposition to the suggestion. But you know as well as I do that he can’t overrule a Council majority.”

Thorin’s scowl does not soften, but he eventually nods in acceptance. Bilbo is starting to get the distinct impression that the whole conversation is laden with decades of Dwarven politics he can’t possibly understand.

After another short silence Thorin speaks up again. “And if I refuse to marry?” he asks, voice tight.

“Then the Iron Hills will not support your claim to the throne.”

Thorin closes his eyes, letting out a frustrated sigh. There’s very little he can do about it, Bilbo realises; Erebor will need the support of the dwarves from the Iron Hills if they want to survive the winter.

“Do you have any other bad news you want to give me?” Thorin asks, wearily.

Face pinched into a look of severe distaste, Balin produces a roll of parchment from inside his coat. “They took the liberty of drawing up a list of acceptable suitors.”

“Of course they did,” says Thorin sardonically, taking the list from him and studying it. “Most of these dwarves are related to Council members. How surprising,” he sneers.

Balin hums out an agreement. “We need to be careful about this, Thorin. From what Dáin tells me there are two factions in his court at present. If we make the wrong choice–”

“Balin, do you truly expect me to bind myself to one of these people?” Thorin interrupts incredulously.

“I don’t see that you have much choice. They are insisting that you marry.”

“There are other unmarried dwarves in the world! If I am to be forced into choosing a consort it could at least be with someone more deserving. One of my own people – an honest dwarf who worked hard to make life bearable for us in exile. Not the child of some rich noble who thinks only of their own prosperity!” Thorin’s voice had steadily gained volume throughout the speech, prompting Balin to raise his hands in a conciliatory manner in the face of the king’s anger.

“I don’t like this any more than you do,” he replies calmly, “but their demands are quite strict. They want you to marry someone of noble lineage and…” Here, Balin pauses; he looks truly contrite, as if he knows that his next words will bring pain. “Not someone who lived with us in exile after Smaug came.”

“And why not?” Thorin’s eyes glint dangerously.

Balin hesitates, but at Thorin’s glare he continues. “Well, they implied that anyone who had, ah, grown accustomed to begging or pawning family heirlooms for money could not be trusted with the wealth of Erebor.”

Bilbo gasps. There’d been no doubt in his mind that Dáin’s council were playing dirty politics but this seemed needlessly, cruelly insulting. He looks over at Thorin, taking in the terrible fury written on his face.

“And so even our own kind treat us like dirt,” the king spits. “They think they are better than us because they have never been homeless, never be desperate. I will not sit here and listen to them insult my people! I will not–” Thorin’s shouting breaks off into hacking coughs and Bilbo immediately reaches out to the pitcher next to him, filling a cup with water and holding it to Thorin’s lips.

Balin takes advantage of his momentary silence. “I know, Thorin. But we will need the support of the Iron Hills this winter or–”

“I will not do it!” Thorin bites out, pushing Bilbo’s hand away. “I will not be dangled before them like a puppet while they shamelessly insult my people!”

“Thorin, if you’d just–”

“I said no, Balin! You will go to the Council and tell them they must change their terms. Until they do, there is not a single person that I could even consider marrying!”

“You could marry me.” The words are out before Bilbo even realises he’s speaking. Despite the relative softness of his voice, the argument trails off as both Thorin and Balin turn to stare at him, and even Dwalin peers over curiously from his place near the entrance. He fidgets awkwardly under their scrutiny, and when no one says anything he opens his own mouth to try and fill the silence.

“I mean,” he starts, wondering what he’s got himself into, “I wasn’t in exile with you. And, well I know I’m not a dwarven noble, but my grandfather was Thain of the Shire.” The dwarves are still staring silently at him. “The Thain is a sort of chief,” he hurriedly elaborates. “My cousin Fortinbras holds the office now.” At this point Bilbo becomes aware that he’s babbling, so he closes his mouth and keeps it closed.

“You’re royalty?” Thorin questions incredulously, and Bilbo fights back a hysterical laugh – of everything he’s just said, Thorin chooses to _ask if Bilbo is royalty._

“Good heavens, no,” he replies, instead. “We don’t really have anything quite so formal in the Shire. The Thain only really uses his position in emergencies, and we don’t have too many of those.” He shudders a little nonetheless, thinking back to the Fell Winter. “But the point is, as you’ve just demonstrated so wonderfully, dwarves don’t know that. Balin, I’m sure you could make me sound important if you put your mind to it.”

Balin is looking at him appraisingly now, a tiny smile pulling at the corner of his lips. Thorin, on the other hand, seems utterly flabbergasted.

“You want to marry me?” he asks, eyebrows knitted together in a frown.

Bilbo grimaces. He doesn’t want to at all – isn’t sure where the idea even came from, to be honest – but _in for a penny in for a pound_ , as his father used to say. “Well, no,” he says honestly. “But you need to get married and I’m probably your best option.”

He hears Dwalin snort but pays it no mind, eyes fixed on Thorin as he looks away, down at his own hands. “Bilbo, you know I’m not…” Thorin starts, trailing off when his own eyes meet Bilbo’s once more. Bilbo raises an enquiring eyebrow, and Thorin takes a breath, words coming out more firmly this time. “I wouldn’t want you to offer this out of some misplaced understanding of what a union with me would entail.”

Bilbo frowns. “What does that mean?”

“I’m aware,” Thorin begins delicately, “that there are certain, ah, expectations that often come with being married and I’m afraid I wouldn’t want to… _help_ you with anything of that sort.”

With dawning horror, Bilbo suddenly realises exactly what Thorin is getting at.

“I wouldn’t want that either,” he says quickly, sounding strangled even to himself. “To be clear, I’m not interested in doing anything like that with you – or with anyone else, for that matter.” How on earth has he managed to get himself into a situation where he has to _talk_ about these sorts of things?

Thorin is staring at him again, but the tension in his shoulders seems to have eased a little. “You wouldn’t expect anything of me?” he asks, cautiously.

“No,” Bilbo reiterates, shaking his head firmly. “Certainly not in that sense.” He darts a look at Balin, whose small grin has transformed into something wide and fond.

“I think our hobbit might be right,” he says to Thorin, “he probably is your best option. I’m certain I could make the grandson of this Thain sound like an important title, just as Bilbo said.” He chuckles a little before continuing. “And it could make a very credible story; if I tell Dáin’s Council that the two of you fell in love on the journey to Erebor, I’m sure many of them would be reluctant to split you up.”

Bilbo doesn’t think he feels particularly comfortable with that notion, but he isn’t sure if he can really object to it at this point, considering this was his idea in the first place.

“Bilbo,” says Thorin, suddenly but gently. “I couldn’t possibly ask this of you.”

“Well it’s a good job you don’t have to ask then. I’m offering,” Bilbo replies.

“And I’m grateful for that,” Thorin continues. “But… I thought you wanted to go home?”

Bilbo pauses. He hadn’t thought about that – hadn’t properly thought about any of this really, beyond offering himself as a suitable option. Now that he _does_ think about it, it’s a daunting prospect; he certainly hadn’t been lying when he told the Company that he missed his garden and his books. Even in his most miserable moments on the journey to Erebor – like the weeks spent living silently and invisibly in the Elvenking’s Palace – he’d been able to perk himself up with prospect of returning to his cosy smial, where he could sit comfortably in his armchair, warming his toes by the hearth and smoking as much Old Toby as he pleased. The image alone evokes a desperate yearning inside him and Bilbo knows that Thorin is absolutely right: he _does_ want to go home.

But then, he can hardly be there right away, can he? It would be madness to travel such a long distance during the winter. Even when the winter has turned into spring there would still be many, many miles to tread before he reached home. And when he gets to the Shire, what then? Oh yes, he’ll enjoy tending to his garden and reading books beside the fire, but who will he talk to when all his closest friends are hundreds of miles away in a hard-won mountain?

 _That wouldn’t be a problem if you stay in Erebor_ , a small voice in his head whispers, _because all your friends will be right here with you_. Bilbo isn’t sure whether he would miss the comforts of home more than he’d miss his friends if he leaves. _Maybe you could have both_ , the voice whispers again. _Surely you’ll be able to at least visit the Shire every now and then – even if you stay here._

Bilbo belatedly notices that the dwarves around him are silent and he looks up, realising he’s been lost in thought for some time. He glances over at Thorin and finds that the king is looking down at his own hands again. He doesn’t look miserable exactly, but certainly seems to be resigned to the idea that this isn’t going to turn out well for him. It’s this more than anything that pushes Bilbo into a decision.

“Thorin,” Bilbo begins quietly, “I came on this quest with you because I wanted to help you take back your home. And now you have done.” Bilbo pauses here, nodding to reassure himself even though Thorin still isn’t looking at him. He takes in a deep, steadying breath. “But I haven’t come this far just to see you made a mockery of by people who share neither your passion nor your love for Erebor. You’ve already done so much for this mountain. You don’t deserve to be trapped in a loveless marriage with someone who has their own agenda.”

Thorin is looking at him now, eyes wide and surprised. Swallowing nervously, Bilbo reaches over and takes one of his hands in a light grip. “Thorin,” he starts, tilting his head and raising one eyebrow in an ironic fashion. “Will you marry me?”

Mouth moving soundlessly, Thorin continues to stare at him until Dwalin coughs loudly in the background. Thorin blinks, regaining his composure enough to throw a scowl in his friend’s direction before turning back to Bilbo.

“Yes,” he says hoarsely. He frowns then, drawing his hand back from Bilbo’s and removing one of his rings. He slides it onto Bilbo’s fourth finger and the two of them watch dubiously as it dangles there, far too large for Bilbo’s small hand.

“Well then,” says Balin cheerfully, “I believe congratulations are in order.”

\--

The marriage braid in his hair doesn’t suit him. It’s a style that works well for dwarves – in Thorin’s case, for example, his own braid just makes him look more regal – but hobbits are not really made for such braids. Bilbo’s hair has always been trimmed regularly, kept short, even and curly, which is exactly how he likes it. Nowadays he has to set aside a small section to grow longer than the rest, weaving it into a tight four-stranded braid every morning and securing it with a bead that had once belonged to Thorin’s grandmother.

He catches sight of himself in the mirror sometimes and wonders if he’s looking at someone else. He’s too skinny now that he eats only three rationed meals per day, and he’s paler from the prolonged time he spends inside the mountain. And all the while his braid hangs asymmetrically against his left shoulder, awkward and out of place.

If he’s honest Bilbo thinks it looks ridiculous, though of course he’d never tell anyone for fear of offending them. Dwarves take their braids very seriously, after all.

\--

The wedding has been set for spring. This, they reason, is fast enough to prevent Dáin’s lords from finding someone else, but far enough away to allow Thorin to get on with the more important business of rebuilding Erebor. Bilbo is also privately thankful that it gives him more time to adjust to the idea of marriage. Dáin’s army is to stay through the winter at the very least, likely until the rest of Thorin’s people arrive from the Blue Mountains, which Balin has predicted will happen at the end of the next summer.

Thorin shocks everyone by making an offer to Bard.

“You should move your people into the mountain for the winter.”

Every single person squashed into the king’s tent stares at Thorin incredulously.

“You offer this to us freely?” asks Bard, after a moment of silence.

“I offer it in recompense for going back on my word, and for bringing ruin upon your people,” Thorin says through clenched teeth and Bilbo experiences a surge of pride for him, knowing he doesn’t find it easy to admit his faults. The king softens a little, then. “I also know what it is to be without a home during a harsh winter. Erebor can shelter you until you are able to rebuild.”

“And you would have no problems with this? You would happily let us all live within your mountain?”

Thorin tilts his head. “There would be restrictions, of course. You would have to be confined to one area. At present, much of the mountain is dangerous and Men do not have the same knowledge of stone that we do. And I would not want your people near the treasury before we have properly assessed its wealth.”

Bilbo winces at Thorin’s bluntness as Bard bristles in anger. “So you offer us charity only to imply we are nothing but robbers and thieves?” he demands.

“I speak not of your people but of my own knowledge of poverty,” Thorin says coldly. “Desperate people will do desperate things in order to help the ones they love.”

Bilbo shudders at the look on Thorin’s face, glad that he has never known such desperation. Meanwhile, Bard’s glare has mellowed into something less angry and more measuring.

“And you ask for nothing in return for this kindness?”

“I ask that we share our resources and skills. Your people know the Long Lake well and are used to fishing here. And there are materials inside the mountain that, while old, could be used to make equipment and clothing. We should share these things with one another.”

Another stunned silence follows those words. Bilbo wonders where this new, reasonable side of Thorin has come from, though he feels a little guilty for thinking it.

All of a sudden, a hearty laugh breaks through the silence. “Ah, cousin,” chortles Dáin. “I can always count on you to do something unexpected.”

Thorin ignores him, though the corners of his lips twitch almost imperceptibly. “Do we have a deal?” he asks Bard instead.

Bilbo waits with bated breath as Bard stares intensely at the king for a moment longer. Then with a small nod of his head, Bard offers Thorin his hand.

“We have a deal,” he says, and Bilbo smiles as the two of them shake on it.

\--

Sometimes Thorin will take his hand if they are in public together. After getting engaged, the two of them along with Balin had discussed the best ways to make their supposed affection for one another seem genuine; by mutual agreement hand-holding had been deemed both convincing to onlookers and inoffensive enough to take part in. Certainly Bilbo is relieved that their public displays of affection don’t tend to go beyond that – their wedding day had been quite enough for one lifetime, thank you very much – but he doesn’t exactly relish the times when he has to hold hands with Thorin.

Their hands don’t fit together particularly well; Thorin’s are much larger than his own, and Bilbo sometimes feels as if his hand has been swallowed up entirely when Thorin clasps it. The king never asks permission either, or even gives Bilbo a warning so that he might prepare himself, just takes his hand and then proceeds to pull him around in a way that makes Bilbo feel not unlike a ragdoll. It shouldn’t be such a huge issue because Bilbo has come to learn that it’s just how dwarves are, in part. Dwarves like physical contact and often use it as a means of demonstrating affection. There were many occasions on the journey to Erebor when one of the Company had placed a friendly hand on Bilbo’s shoulder to steer him in a particular direction, or had hauled him about when they thought he was moving too slowly. On one memorable occasion Dwalin had actually picked Bilbo up and carried him over his shoulder, much to the amusement of everyone else.

But this is different somehow. Thorin’s hand feels more cloying than friendly these days, and it’s become hard not to jerk away whenever those large fingers weave between his own. Feeling every minute shift of Thorin’s hand just makes him profoundly uneasy, and it becomes difficult to focus on anything that is not the sensation of Thorin’s rough palm moving jarringly against his.

Perhaps it is a little unfair of him but he takes to avoiding Thorin during the day, and on the occasions where they have to interact he makes sure to shove his hands deep inside his pockets.

\--

While Thorin carries out the very important business of sorting out rationing with Bard and Dáin, or delegating tasks amongst dwarves and humans according to their skill set, Bilbo is whisked away by Dori to be measured for clothes and consulted on his favourite styles. It’s for the wedding in particular, though Dori insists that he should be fitted out with a new set of clothes entirely, since the only ones he currently owns are torn, dirty and far too big for him.

“And besides,” says Dori, “you’ll be the King’s Consort soon enough. You have to look the part.”

Bilbo carefully doesn’t mention that he thinks there are more important things to be getting along with than his own attire, and just lets Dori enjoy his work.

He feels embarrassed and uncomfortable with the preferential treatment though, especially considering that Thorin himself doesn’t seem to be particularly concerned about ordering any new clothing to be made. And it doesn’t help that Dori is keen to make something in the dwarven style for him; he discovers quickly enough that the fussy dwarf doesn’t think much to hobbit fashions, insisting that tunics are far more comfortable and practical.

Bilbo finds himself glad that he was at least able to talk Dori out of making him any boots.

\--

The King’s Consort doesn’t actually have many duties to attend to, as it turns out. Truth be told, Bilbo doesn’t have much of anything to do; as spring turns into summer he finds himself growing weary of knitting socks and darning tunics, especially considering that sort of thing is not needed quite so much in the warm season. Ori and Balin have made it their mission to preserve and organise the library, and while Bilbo would very much like to help he can’t because he hasn’t yet been permitted to learn Khuzdul. He’s offered his assistance to Bombur in the kitchens in the hopes that it will both keep him busy and allow him to eat something that better suits his palate, but some of Dáin’s lords pitched a fit at the idea of a royal consort lowering himself to what they called _servant’s work_. He is required to sit in on Council meetings, but he still hasn’t fully wrapped his head around the dwarven political situation and he knows very little about how to rebuild a kingdom, so he tends not to contribute much.

He spends as much time as he can with the people of Lake-town – or Dale now – but it is harder now that they are no longer sheltering within the mountain. It’s not far to Dale from Erebor, but he can’t be there all day, every day. Dwarves are a suspicious lot at the best of times and, as an outsider who has married their king, Bilbo often finds himself under sharp scrutiny; it wouldn’t do to let them think that he has more affinity with Men than he does his own husband.

Dale is not entirely suited to Bilbo anyway, being of a much bigger scale than he is used to, but the people are generally pleasant enough. Many of them take an interest in his garden, and he has to admit that it’s nice to finally be able to discuss such things again with people who aren’t listening solely to indulge him. Fulya the flower merchant looks after the garden when he can’t tend to it himself, and when he can she often stays to help, her coppery-brown hands working efficiently alongside his smaller, paler fingers as they dig soil and layer compost together. Bilbo likes her a lot, likes that the two of them can share comfortable silences as they work, and at other times can spend hours talking with one another without it getting tiring. He discovers that she too had travelled to this part of the world, being originally from a city built on the slopes of the Orocarni Mountains in the Far East, which she describes to him with warmth and no small amount of yearning.

Sometimes Bilbo sits alone in his rooms at the very top of the mountain and thinks about that, wondering why she bothers to stay here when she so clearly wants to go home.

\--

He and Thorin talk very little to one another these days, for all that they are supposed to be in love. That isn’t to say Bilbo doesn’t see Thorin, because he does: in Council meetings, to discuss wedding preparations, or simply bypassing Thorin in corridors. No, it’s not so much that the two of them don’t see one another, more that there never seems to be much to say when they do.

“Are you in good health?” Thorin might ask stiltedly when he and Bilbo are the first ones to arrive to a Council meeting.

“Yes, I’m quite well,” Bilbo will reply. “And yourself?”

“I am also well, thank you.” And after that is said they will both lapse back into awkward silence.

The problem is that Bilbo’s mind has started to go irritatingly blank whenever Thorin is around. He thinks Thorin might be having the same problem, because the king is tentative with him in a way that is uncharacteristic. It saddens him that the two of them don’t know how to talk to one another anymore, especially considering how difficult it had been to win Thorin’s friendship in the first place.

He likes to think back on the days before everything became so messy, when talking to Thorin had been comfortable and easy. In Lake-town they had relaxed together over a pipe, and when Bilbo had wanted to know more about Erebor, Thorin told stories from his own childhood, sharing them without the reserve or restraint that he usually maintained over personal matters. Bilbo’s predominant memory from that night is of Thorin smiling wistfully but fondly, and he wishes he were still able to bring that look to Thorin’s face.

He misses that time of easy camaraderie. He wonders if Thorin misses it too.

\--

Bilbo keeps his mithril armour in a small chest beneath the bed. He isn’t one for sparkling gems or precious metals, but he has to admit that he finds the garment pleasing. It’s very Dwarven, and not at all the type of thing he generally likes to wear or even has any particular use for, now that he is no longer on a perilous quest; had he returned home to the Shire, he would have probably loaned it to the Mathom-house at Michel Delving.

He values it highly all the same, and some days he even wears it. It is light and cool against his skin, and sits reassuringly beneath his shirt and jacket. He wears it and is reminded that he has a friend in Thorin Oakenshield, even when they haven’t spoken a single word to one another, save for ‘good morning’ and ‘good night’, for a whole two weeks.

\--

“Why on earth are you marrying him?” Bard asks one evening, as they sit together on a high ridge that looks out over Dale. Bilbo spends a great deal of time in the company of Men these days; he has neither the strength nor the knowledge to help the Dwarves with their reconstruction work, but he is useful with a needle and thread, a skill which he puts to use in the making and mending of clothes. When Bard isn’t in meetings he’ll often sit beside Bilbo, knitting needles and a yarn of wool in his own hands. It had come as a surprise at first, but by now the two of them have struck up a comfortable friendship, and Bilbo finds himself valuing Bard’s company highly.

All the same, he raises an unimpressed eyebrow at the question. The past few weeks have seen Bard and Thorin make steps towards an amicable relationship, and Bilbo is caught between disappointment and offence at Bard’s open hostility.

“You do realise that _King Thorin_ has given you shelter for the winter, along with a pledge that the Dwarves of Erebor will help you rebuild Dale,” he says, somewhat tartly.

Bard grimaces. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Oh?” prompts Bilbo, sceptically. “Then how did you mean it?”

For a few moments Bard says nothing, just stares cautiously at Bilbo, as if weighing up whether it would be better to answer or simply let the matter drop. Eventually he seems to go for the former, visibly steeling himself as he turns to face Bilbo fully.

“I meant that you’re not in love with him,” he says bluntly.

Bilbo freezes. Of course Bard’s right, but only a select few people are privy to that information.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snaps. It’s harsher than he intended, but that probably lends credibility to the words.

Unfortunately they don’t seem to persuade Bard, who merely rolls his eyes. “I’m not stupid, Bilbo,” he reprimands. “I’ve seen the way you act. You’re awkward around him, you look unhappy whenever he takes your hand and you become closed off when someone so much as mentions the wedding.”

Bilbo hadn’t realised he was doing such a bad job of pretending to be in love. If Bard figured it out so easily then surely others might have also discovered the truth, he thinks, heart beating rapidly.

His panic must show on his face because Bard sets a careful hand on his shoulder, gazing at him in some concern. “I’m not accusing you of anything,” he says soothingly. “I’m just worried about you. I like to think that we have become good friends over these past months, and I would hate to see you forced into a marriage that does not bring you happiness.”

Bard’s words remind Bilbo of his own, back in the tent after the battle. _You don’t deserve to be trapped in a loveless marriage_ , he remembers saying to Thorin. Bilbo still believes that, and it calms him a little to think back on it.

“I appreciate your concern, Bard,” he reassures. “But I’m not being forced into anything.” Bilbo shakes his head in a quelling motion when Bard seems about to protest. “You’re right: we’re not in love. But Thorin couldn’t remain unmarried, and his other options were quite unsuitable. So I offered.”

Bard is staring at him incredulously. “And he just accepted? He didn’t have a problem with that?”

Bilbo purses his lips. “He didn’t have much choice,” he says, watching Bard’s eyebrows climb higher and higher. “Look, it isn’t–”

“Stop defending him!” Bard interrupts. “This is ridiculous! Bilbo, you don’t owe Thorin anything and he has no right to make you do something you don’t–”

“Stop shouting, if you please!” Bilbo raises his own voice to talk over Bard. The two of them stare at one another for a moment, breathing heavily, before Bard deflates with a murmured apology. “I know you are only speaking out of concern,” Bilbo continues, at a more acceptable volume, “but the situation is not nearly as bad as you believe it to be. And nor is Thorin, for that matter.” He shoots Bard a reproving look. “Thorin and I may not be in love but we are friends, and we respect one another. It was my choice to marry him, and he would not have agreed if he thought I was being coerced.”

Bard stares at him for a little longer before sighing. “If you’re certain.”

“I am,” says Bilbo firmly, looking away from Bard and out at the wintery sunset, his breath misting in the cold air.

He is certain, but that does nothing to alleviate the tendrils of unease that unfurl in his stomach the next time Thorin takes his hand. Bard shoots him a sad little smile, and Bilbo pretends not to notice.

\--

Despite living in a mountain full of Dwarves, Bilbo doesn’t actually see his friends from the Company too often nowadays. Well, that’s not entirely true because Dwalin follows Thorin about like a shadow, and he sees Balin on a regular basis too, as the king’s closest advisor. Óin and Glóin have seats on the King’s Council with Bilbo, but it is not quite the same as spending time with them, and when not in Council meetings they are both kept very busy in the infirmaries and treasury respectively. He has invited the other members of the Company to take tea with him at times, but they accept only sporadically. Bifur and Bofur both work long shifts in the mines, Bombur is in constant demand in the kitchens and Ori has practically moved into the library. As for Dori and Nori, well Bilbo hasn’t the slightest idea what the middle brother is up to, but Dori has taken it upon himself to ensure the smooth running of each of the Guilds and spares time for little else, except Ori.

The only dwarves who regularly take him up on his invitation to tea are Fíli and Kíli who, as Thorin’s heirs, also have places on the Council – though they spend much more of their time in lessons, which he knows they both detest. They whine and grumble to him about being forced to learn etiquette, history and politics as if they were dwarflings again, and Bilbo teases that it’s hardly any wonder they’re mistaken for children when they pout so much.

He doesn’t see the rest of his friends all that often, but Fíli and Kíli make him smile and laugh, and Bilbo takes care to savour every moment of them he can get.

\--

For a Dwarven wedding theirs is atypical, and not just because Thorin’s status as king means that it has to be a grand affair. Family usually plays a large role in the ceremony, Bilbo is told, in that close relations of both dwarves form a circle around the couple as they say their vows, symbolising the protection and love that a large family offers. In their case this is somewhat difficult, given that Bilbo’s family is hundreds of miles away – and even if they weren’t they’d be scandalised at the idea of him marrying a Dwarven king. Even without the circle of family members, both dwarves are also expected to kneel to the parents of their intended, as a sign of respect, and a promise that they will care for and protect their partner as fiercely as a parent would.

They manage as best they can; in place of Bilbo’s family the Company forms a circle around them as Bilbo kneels before Dís, and then Thorin before Bilbo himself, giving thanks to the Shire for the protection it has afforded. It is unusual, especially at the wedding of a king, but nobody raises any objections over them altering custom to suit their own situation.

Even so, there are some customs which are unalterable and, rather unfortunately, unavoidable.

Bilbo looks up from the golden band that has just been placed on his finger, nervously meeting Thorin’s eyes. The two of them stare awkwardly at one another for a moment before Thorin moves forward, pressing one hand lightly to Bilbo’s shoulder while the other reaches to cup the back of his head. Bilbo can feel his heart hammering wildly in his chest. He knows what’s coming.

“Forgive me,” Thorin breathes, just before his lips descend upon Bilbo’s.

It must last no longer than two seconds, but that’s still enough time for Bilbo’s stomach to lurch unpleasantly as Thorin’s mouth touches his own. His lips are chapped and dry, and Bilbo screws his eyes shut tightly at the sensation, wishing fervently that he were somewhere else. They stay still for a moment before Thorin pulls away. Not far enough, as it turns out, because Thorin tilts his forehead to rest against Bilbo’s, breathing shakily against his cheek as the hall around them bursts into applause.

“Forgive me,” he whispers again, and Bilbo has to fight the urge to push him back. He thinks he might be able to forgive Thorin if only the dwarf would give him some space.

Thorin does draw back eventually, removing his hand from the back of Bilbo’s head and giving him an assessing look. Bilbo tries to smile reassuringly, but he thinks it must come out wrong because Thorin’s lips take a sharp downward turn. The king looks like he wants to say something more, but before he has the chance Fíli and Kíli have descended upon them both, offering exuberant hugs and congratulations. The rest of the Company follows, along with Dís and Dáin, and while Bilbo knows it’s mostly for show, he really wishes they would all just stop.

The celebrations that follow the ceremony should be more than bearable in comparison. In any other circumstances Bilbo thinks he would have enjoyed watching the peculiar Dwarven dances performed in front of him, but with Thorin’s arm wrapped awkwardly around his waist it is difficult to really focus on anything else.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin says later, when the two of them are alone in their rooms. “I know that was… unpleasant for you.” Bilbo doesn’t mention that ‘unpleasant’ is far too mild a word to describe his feelings about kissing.

“It’s alright,” he says instead, even though he doesn’t feel alright.

“No, it isn’t.” Thorin looks at him miserably. “I shouldn’t have made you… I’m so sorry, Bilbo.”

Bilbo’s throat feels tight. “I know,” he reassures quietly, because of course he can recognise that Thorin feels truly remorseful. All the same, he turns away and heads into the next room, shutting the door firmly and sinking down to the floor.

He closes his eyes, leaning back against the door, and breathes.

\--

Nowadays most dwarves dip their heads towards Bilbo as he passes them in corridors. _Your Highness_ , they murmur deferentially if he ever wishes them an innocuous _good morning_. He bears the reverence awkwardly, unable to get past the strangeness of being treated like he is something special. It’s frustrating too, because having any sort of enjoyable conversation is difficult when most people are busy worrying about forms of address. He wandered into the kitchens once in the hopes of finding Bombur but instead had only come across Bombur’s assistant, a young boy who had proceeded to stare silently at him in awe and amazement, apparently unaware that Bilbo was trying to speak to him.

It makes him immensely glad that Thorin refuses to keep personal servants; he can only imagine that having dwarves who are paid to keep him happy would make him feel even more awkward.

\--

They take rooms at the very top of the mountain. That’s where the royal apartments are anyway, but Thorin picks these especially because he thinks Bilbo will appreciate a room with windows. Bilbo does, as a matter of fact, though he’d probably appreciate it more if he could actually open them.

Sleeping together is unexpectedly awkward. Bilbo hadn’t really even thought about that side of things; during the quest he spent a lot of time in close quarters with the dwarves, and it hadn’t been unusual for the lot of them to huddle together for warmth on cold nights. So really, sharing a bed shouldn’t be too awkward. But apparently it’s different when there are only two of you, and Bilbo finds that sleeping next to Thorin feels intimate in a way he isn’t entirely comfortable with.

He keeps to the edge of the mattress as best he can, and not just because it leaves more space between them. Thorin is a very light sleeper, who tends to wake at the slightest sound or movement. Bilbo overcompensates by keeping as still as a rock, hoping that if he coughs or sneezes it will be quiet enough not to disturb Thorin. It’s no way to get to sleep, curled up tightly on his side in a ball of tension, vaguely worried that he might fall out of bed if he moves forward in his sleep. Most nights he sleeps fitfully, waking frequently and unable to stay in bed past sunrise. It makes him tired and irritable, and Bilbo finds himself snapping at people when he doesn’t mean to.

Thorin seems to sleep just as poorly, if not worse. He’s accustomed to restless nights in a way that Bilbo isn’t, but all the same his eyes are beginning to take on a permanent bloodshot look, lined underneath with dark circles. He has nightmares sometimes, too. Bilbo thinks he knows a little of what that is like, now that he has seen corpses strewn across a silent battlefield, but his own terrors probably can’t even begin to compare to whatever Thorin dreams of at night. They don’t talk about it; Bilbo isn’t sure what he could say to provide comfort, and Thorin rarely stays in bed long enough for him to attempt anything.

\--

He misses the Shire so much it hurts, some days. He has his garden in Dale, but it’s just not the same; it’s an afterthought, a speck of colour tacked on to a charred, grey landscape that once served as a dragon’s playground. And he has nothing of that sort inside the mountain, which is where he spends most of his time. Erebor isn’t dingy or cold like he imagined a mountain would be, but all the same Bilbo often ends up feeling trapped when he’s within it. He takes to climbing the long staircases that lead to ridges and viewing points on the sides of the mountain, so that he might breathe in the fresh air and feel the wind upon his face.

Sometimes he’ll eschew the prospect such places offer him and close his eyes, imagining instead that he is back in the Shire, that he can hear the bubbling of the little rivers and the low humming of bees at work in his garden. He can sit upon those deserted mountain ledges for hours at a time thinking of meadow-flowers and butterflies in the summer, of yellow leaves and gossamer in the autumn, and of the vibrant green of Binbole Wood in the spring. With his eyes closed Bilbo can picture himself in his armchair by the fire, just as he had so often on the journey to Erebor, a pipe in his hand and a book open on his lap.

And when he opens his eyes he finds himself once again looking out over the desolation left in the wake of a dragon, and his yearning feels like a physical ache inside his chest.

\--

“Do you have to do that quite so often?” Bilbo snaps, struggling to undo the clasp on his cloak. He has turned his back to Thorin, now that they are alone in their rooms and he doesn’t have to be polite.

“Do what?” asks Thorin, and Bilbo’s throat pulls tight. He’s upset and tired, and he wants to shout at the king for failing to notice Bilbo’s discomfort.

“Hold hands with me,” Bilbo says shortly, shivering a little as he recalls the unsettling sensation of Thorin’s fingers pressed tightly against his own such for a long amount of time.

“You said you didn’t mind holding hands when we discussed this.” It sounds like an accusation and Bilbo’s temper flares.

“That doesn’t mean you have to manhandle me at every opportunity!”

“I didn’t realise I was.” Thorin’s voice is strained. Good, Bilbo thinks vindictively.

“Well you are! Anyone would think you enjoy forcing yourself upon me like that considering how often you do it!” Bilbo finally manages to unfasten his cloak and he slams it down on the table angrily, waiting for the shouting that is sure to follow.

It doesn’t.

When Thorin says nothing, Bilbo turns to glare at him but loses track of it as soon as he catches sight of the king’s face. Thorin is as white as a sheet, eyes wide and horrified as they stare back at him. Bilbo frowns, then very suddenly realises what he has just said, clapping a hand to his mouth.

The silence between them stretches out.

Eventually Thorin sucks in a deep breath. “I apologise,” he says hoarsely, and Bilbo can hear his voice shaking. He turns abruptly on his heel and marches to the door, startling the guard outside as he yanks it open. A moment later the door is shut firmly again, leaving another silence in its wake.

“I didn’t mean that,” Bilbo whispers to the empty room. His knees buckle unexpectedly and he reaches out to grasp the table as he slides down to the ground.

It is a long time before he can get his legs to stop shaking enough that he can move, long enough that the sound of his quiet sobbing has finally petered out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I was trying to write the final part of [And there's a storm in every bottle of wine](http://archiveofourown.org/series/251845) when this popped into my head and wouldn't leave. It's intended as a bit of a twist on the whole arranged marriage trope, but I went ahead and tagged Bilbo/Thorin because I do see this as a Bagginshield fic, just one which features a non-romantic kind of intimacy.
> 
> The Dwarven wedding customs I wrote about were inspired by the rather interesting ideas in [this article.](https://dwarrowscholar.wordpress.com/2013/04/11/whos-the-bride-dwarven-marriage/) Also, as keen Tolkien fans may have noticed, I based part of my description of the Shire on [this beautiful poem.](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/I_sit_beside_the_fire_and_think)
> 
> The second and final chapter is already all planned out, but it could take a while to finish it because I start back at uni next week, and with any luck someone will decide to employ me soon!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not quite as beta'd as it normally would be, but I figured that if I don't post it now I'll probably never get around to it!

Dwalin finds him one evening, sitting quietly on a high ridge that looks out over Dale. By the time the dwarf joins him Bilbo has lost track of how long he’s been there, but the warmth of the late summer sun seems to be waning and shadows have begun to creep between the houses in the city below, its cobbled streets slowly hidden from view as evening sets in. Bilbo is cold – has been for a while – but he thinks that’s a small price to pay in exchange for the view this spot gives him and the fresh air that comes with it.

He peers over out of the corner of his eye when Dwalin unexpectedly sits down beside him, but the gruff dwarf says nothing, merely takes out a whetstone from his pocket and sets about sharpening his axes. Bilbo slowly turns his gaze back towards the sunset and the two of them say nothing for a while. The repetitive sound of stone against blade would almost be relaxing if it didn’t remind Bilbo quite so much of the journey to Erebor, of times spent looking out into the darkening evening sky while a different dwarf sharpened weapons beside him.

“Thorin’s avoiding you,” states a low voice, bringing Bilbo out of his reverie. The words take a moment to sink in, but once they do Bilbo can hardly deny them; Thorin doesn’t seem to have entered their rooms at all in the past two weeks. He turns his face away from the sunset and focuses instead on watching the progress of a lone raven as it hops from rock to rock on the mountainside.

“Seems like you’re avoiding him too,” Dwalin continues.

Bilbo side-eyes him again, wondering how the dwarf came to that conclusion.

Dwalin looks back at him this time, slowly raising one eyebrow. “Well, you’re up here, aren’t you?”

At that, Bilbo scoffs bitterly. He shouldn’t really be surprised by now that someone he counts amongst his closest friends doesn’t seem to know how he spends the majority of his days.

“This is hardly out of the ordinary for me, Dwalin,” he mutters, glaring out over Dale once more.

There’s a silence before Dwalin tries again. “Thorin said you argued.”

Bilbo’s anger melts abruptly, and he feels his shoulders sag. “We did.”

“He said you were angry at him.”

“I was. But I…” Bilbo hesitates, wondering exactly how much Thorin had revealed. “I said something that… wasn’t very nice.”

“I know. Thorin told me.”

Bilbo swallows and looks around slowly, expecting to see recrimination on the burly dwarf’s face. He’s met with nothing of the sort; Dwalin seems entirely calm, and he merely stares placidly at Bilbo before putting his axe and whetstone to one side.

“Why did you offer to marry Thorin?”

Bilbo blinks at the sudden change in subject. “You know why. You were there when I did it.”

At the unimpressed frown Dwalin shoots him Bilbo sighs. “I wanted to make things easier for him.”

“Things don’t seem too easy for him at the moment,” Dwalin states, quietly. “They don’t seem too easy for you, either.”

Bilbo swallows again and looks down at the ground. His hands seem to have curled into tight fists in his lap, and he can feel fingernails biting into the skin of his palms.

“Lad,” says Dwalin. “We can tell you’re not happy. Thorin can tell. But he’ll not talk to you about it because he thinks it’s his doing.”

Bilbo says nothing to that, eyes burning a hole in the ground between them as he stares determinedly at it. After a moment Dwalin sucks in a low breath.

“So he’s right then.”

Bilbo bites his lip and frowns, shaking his head a fraction. “It’s not really his fault,” he says softly, throat tight. “It’s just… It’s hard to be around him sometimes.”

“Alright,” says Dwalin, matching Bilbo’s hushed tone. “And why’s that?”

He has to swallow a few times before he’s able to say anything, and when the words finally come they’re stilted and halting. “I feel… trapped. I don’t think hobbits were made for mountains. And Thorin, he…” Bilbo trails off, taking a shaky breath and squeezing his fingers more tightly against his palms. “He just makes it worse. He’s always touching me and I hate it… I hate holding hands with him.”

As soon as he’s said it aloud, it feels petty and small. “That sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? I’m overreacting…”

“Can’t be, with how upset you both are over it,” says Dwalin immediately. “If it bothers you, it bothers you. Can’t change that.”

Bilbo looks up at Dwalin, surprised at the reassurance. The dwarf merely shrugs, and Bilbo can feel the corners of his eyes prickling.

“Have you told Thorin you don’t like it?” Dwalin asks, after a beat of silence.

Bilbo nods miserably. “That’s what we were arguing about. But then I said–” he cuts himself off, shuddering as the memory of his own awful words and Thorin’s abrupt exit comes back to him. The prickling in his eyes spills over into tears that run slowly down his face, and Bilbo swipes at them hurriedly with shaking fingers.

A scraping sound starts up again, and Bilbo looks over and, through his tears, sees that Dwalin has picked up his axe and whetstone again. Bilbo dimly recognises that he’s being given the chance to compose himself in a sort of privacy.

“Alright?” the dwarf asks, once Bilbo has calmed down a little. Bilbo nods, grateful that he isn’t the kind to be overbearing.

“You should talk to Thorin again,” Dwalin says. “Properly, this time. Explain why you don’t like the hand holding.”

Bilbo frowns. “I just told you I tried that,” he exclaims. “It went appallingly!”

Dwalin shrugs again. “You can hardly make things much worse, then.”

Bilbo stares at him incredulously, though it seems to have little effect. “Talking to Thorin will help,” Dwalin continues. “You’re not the only one upset. He hates seeing you so unhappy.”

“Thorin said that?”

It’s Dwalin’s turn to look incredulous. “You doubt it?”

Bilbo looks away again. Dwalin makes it all sound so easy, so obvious, but talking to Thorin right now feels like an insurmountable task. “How would I even… I never get the chance to talk to him these days…”

“You share a bed,” says Dwalin, raising an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Not recently.” Bilbo stares dejectedly at the ground. “And anyway he always looks so exhausted that I don’t want to disturb him. He works far too hard, you know…”

A short silence follows that before Dwalin snorts, and Bilbo looks up to see the dwarf gazing at him fondly.

“You should tell him that too. Durin knows he won’t hear it from us.”

“I don’t…” Bilbo hesitates. He knows Dwalin is right, but actually talking to Thorin, well that’s the hard part. “I don’t know how to talk to him anymore. You’ve seen how badly it went wrong last time.”

Dwalin shrugs. “So write him a letter.”

 _Oh_ , thinks Bilbo. That’s actually not a bad idea.

“Write him a letter,” Dwalin says again, more firmly. “Explain everything.”

There is another silence as the conversation lapses and Dwalin puts down his weapon and stone again.

“Brace yourself,” he says suddenly, and Bilbo looks up in alarm. One of Dwalin’s large hands comes to rest on the back of his head. Bilbo’s instinctive reaction is to pull away, but when he sees Dwalin looking questioningly at him he suddenly realises that the dwarf is asking for permission.

It feels… Well, all of a sudden Bilbo feels more in control than he has in months.

When he doesn’t pull away, Dwalin leans forward and rests his brow against Bilbo’s, eyes shut and breathing quietly through his nose. Bilbo has seen Dwarves do this before, amongst family, and while it feels a little awkward to him, it’s intimate too. Not the oppressive kind of intimate, either – the nice kind.

“We all want you to be happy, Hobbit,” he says gruffly. “Don’t you forget that.”

After another moment Dwalin pulls away, releasing Bilbo completely. He picks up his axes and stone, slipping the former onto his back and the latter into his pocket as he stands and turns back towards the stairs.

“Talk to Thorin,” he says one last time, over his shoulder.

Bilbo watches as he walks away, and thinks that Dwalin is a much more observant person than anyone gives him credit for.

\--

When Bilbo was a child his mother taught him how to weave a crown out of flowers.

“That’s it, my boy,” she said, kneeling beside him at the bottom of their garden, while her nimble fingers gently arranged his still clumsy hands around the delicate plants. “Some day you’ll meet a very special lady, and you’ll be able to make her a crown just like this.”

“What lady?” asked Bilbo.

His mother chuckled at him. “I can’t tell you that, my love. You have to decide who she is.”

Bilbo scrunched up his nose. “I don’t understand. Why is do I have to choose one special lady? Can’t I just make crowns for everyone?” That seemed like a much nicer idea than only one person being allowed to wear flowers.

“Well,” said his mother, letting the finished crown rest in his hands while her own moved to smooth through his hair. “The thing about this lady is that you’ll think she’s perfect. You won’t be able to think of anyone more perfect than her. And you’ll want to spend the rest of your life with her.” She looked back towards their smial – where Bilbo’s father was sat smoking on the bench in front of the door – and smiled fondly. “So that’s why you make the crown: to show the lady how much you love her. And if she wears it, that means she loves you back.”

Bilbo paused to think about this for a moment, then reached up to try and place the crown atop his mother’s head. “I think you should wear this then,” he said seriously.

Belladonna laughed again, but leant down and let him arrange the flowers in her hair. “That’s not quite how it works, my dear. But not to worry, you’ll understand when you’re a little older.”

Years would go by and, as Bilbo watched his friends start pairing off, he would think back to that conversation in the garden and wonder when the understanding his mother spoke of would come to him. At the age of 32 he would present flowers to a pretty Proudfoot girl, in the hopes that it might stop his mother’s worried frowning. It did, but Bilbo found the relationship so difficult and confusing that he broke it off after only a month, and pretended not to see the way Belladonna’s smile dropped when he told her.

He isn’t sure what his mother would make of him now, if she could see him. He can’t decide whether she’d be shocked that he’s married to a male dwarf, or just relieved that he’s married to anyone at all.

\--

He spends a few more days sitting alone atop the mountain before he eventually accepts that Dwalin has given him good advice: Bilbo and Thorin do need to communicate. That’s much easier said than done, of course, because working up the courage to actually talk to Thorin proves to be particularly difficult.

Bilbo settles for giving a bouquet in the end. He’ll be limited to the few flowers he has growing in his garden, though he supposes it won’t matter all that much, considering that Thorin is unlikely to know their specific meanings. All the same Bilbo is glad he thought to grow daffodils, because after the past few miserable weeks a new beginning – even if it’s only symbolic – sounds like a wonderful prospect. He adds hazel as well for reconciliation, and a few of the oakleaf geraniums he’d planted in honour of Thorin’s epithet.

After he’s finished, Bilbo heads back into the mountain and buys an ornately decorated urn from the newly opened market, arranging his flowers as nicely as he can inside it. Thorin might not be able to interpret the message behind such a bouquet but Bilbo is certain he understands just how much value hobbits give to plants, so at the very least the king should be able to recognise the significance behind the gesture. Even so, he decides to send a note along with the flowers, just to be on the safe side.

 _Thorin,_ he writes, and then pauses for a long while in order to figure out what he wants to say.

_In my culture, when a hobbit has done something wrong – said something hurtful, perhaps – they send flowers by way of apology. I realise dwarves don’t set so much significance by plants, so it is unlikely you will know the meanings of the flowers I have picked, but please believe me when I say that I hope this bouquet can symbolise reconciliation, and a new beginning to our friendship._

_Don’t work yourself too hard. Sleeping at your desk hurts your neck; there is a perfectly serviceable bed in our rooms which could fix that._

_Your friend,  
Bilbo_

He imagines Dwalin might scoff, because while the letter is sincere it’s not particularly communicative. Bilbo hasn’t mentioned anything of his own discomfort, and nothing can really be resolved between them until Bilbo is able to explain that. It’s a start though, and it gives him the time to work up to the rest. So he hands the flowers and the note over to Balin, asking the old dwarf if he would be so kind as to put them somewhere obvious in Thorin’s study. Balin gives him a warm smile and a pat on the shoulder.

“I’ll see that he gets them, laddie,” he reassures.

Later that night, Bilbo is stirred into wakefulness by the shifting of blankets and the dipping of the mattress. He peers over sleepily and finds himself looking at the broad line of Thorin’s shoulders. The king’s back is turned, his hair trailing loosely down his neck and arms, giving no chance to decipher his expression. All the same, Bilbo finds himself smiling gently through the haze of sleep, and when his eyes droop closed again it is to the knowledge that things between he and Thorin were perhaps not as broken as they seemed.

\--

It’s odd to be a public figure in a city of Dwarves. Back in the Shire gossiping was, of course, a popular pastime amongst everyone but it was usually done in private, so that the subject of any gossip had no chance of hearing it. Dwarves, as Bilbo has come to learn, are not a particularly subtle race and as such their version of gossiping tends to take a more obvious shape.

It’s a somewhat frequent occurrence nowadays to overhear Dwarves nattering about him as he passes them in the corridors. He contents himself that at least the gossip usually sounds positive. _He’s an interesting sort of fellow,_ he overhears one dwarf saying. __Our king has made a fine match,_ _ says another, __they suit one another well._ _ Bilbo is never quite sure what to make of such things when he hears them, and he feels distinctly uncomfortable with the idea that people he’s never met are free to discuss his personal relationships.

But then again, convincing a kingdom that he and Thorin are in love was always part of the plan – his plan, in fact. He hardly has the right to complain if it’s working.

\--

Three weeks on, Bilbo is starting to think he ought to have said more in his letter. Undoubtedly the little he did write managed to clear the air a bit; they’ve gone back to sharing a bed and sometimes Thorin will even sit in their rooms with Bilbo during the evening, rather than retreating to his study. It’s a definite improvement on the two weeks of misery that had followed their argument, but things are still decidedly awkward between them.

Sometimes, as they sit opposite one another at the table, Bilbo will glance up and catch Thorin staring at him as if he wants to speak. He never does though, merely looks away hastily whenever their eyes meet. Bilbo himself hardly makes matters better; his ingrained hobbit manners kick in during the uncomfortable silences, and he finds himself asking Thorin the most dreadfully boring questions about crockery and furniture, in a way that the king seems to find bemusing more than anything.

And so it goes on, until one evening when Thorin seems particularly agitated.

“Thorin, what is it?” Bilbo snaps, when he’s grown tired of Thorin’s angry pacing. Thorin shoots him a glare, but comes to a stop by the fireplace.

“Thranduil being pigheaded, as usual,” he mutters darkly. Bilbo tries very hard not to roll his eyes; Thorin can be equally as stubborn as the Elvenking, if not more so at times, though he knows better than to point that out.

“What’s he done now?” he asks instead.

“He refuses to grant our people safe passage through Mirkwood for their return to Erebor. He said he doesn’t want any more dwarves ruining his forest. As if it wasn’t already ruined…” Thorin trails off into low, frustrated muttering.

“Have you tried bargaining with him?”

Thorin glares. “I shouldn’t have to! He owes it to our people! He did nothing to help us before when we were homeless and starving. And now he would deny us our home!”

“Have you tried?” Bilbo repeats, impatience colouring his tone.

“I have not,” states Thorin firmly, but after a moment he seems to deflate a little. “Our meetings are rather short, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

Bilbo certainly can imagine, and he doesn’t envy Bard the task of joining the frosty meetings between proud rulers who have hated one another for centuries.

“Why don’t you ask Balin to lead the negotiations?” he asks. Balin has a clear head, and is less prone to insulting people when he doesn’t get his own way.

Thorin glares at him again, like he knows exactly what Bilbo is thinking. “Thranduil won’t treat with him. He says a king ought to be received by a king.”

Bilbo sighs. He isn’t sure what else to suggest until, very suddenly, a thought strikes him.

“Would he treat with me?”

Thorin’s angry glare melts into confusion. “You’re not the king,” he says slowly.

Bilbo shrugs nonchalantly, though he can feel his heartbeat quicken in his chest. “No,” he admits. “But I am the king’s consort.”

This time, when Thorin simply stares at him with a puzzled look upon his face, Bilbo does roll his eyes. He sincerely hopes that Thorin is baffled at the suggestion, and not because he had forgotten Bilbo is the consort.

“Treating with me can hardly be perceived as an insult,” Bilbo continues, after the silence has dragged out. “And I think Thranduil likes me a lot more than he does you. I’m not a dwarf, after all.” Thorin’s glare returns at that, but Bilbo finds he has no patience for it. “Scowl all you like, you know I’m right.”

The king frowns a little longer, but when he turns back to the fireplace he seems considering. Bilbo holds his breath; he hadn’t even thought about taking on such a role in dwarven politics before, but now that it’s occurred to him he finds that he desperately wants Thorin to allow him this. Negotiating with elves would prove that he still has some skills to offer the dwarves, and if nothing else he’d finally have something to occupy his time.

“Why don’t you sit down and explain the situation to me?” He coaxes, when Thorin still hasn’t said anything. “And tomorrow I could write to Thranduil asking him to treat with me.”

Thorin nods slowly, and eventually moves to take a seat next to Bilbo, dragging over a set of papers from the other side of the table. Keeping his face composed and businesslike, Bilbo listens attentively while Thorin explains, though all the while his heart pounds with the thrill of success.

\--

He wonders sometimes what it would be like to travel again. He thinks often of the journey to Erebor, of the sense of freedom and adventure which he had gained from leaving the Shire, and he wonders when exactly that feeling disappeared.

He thinks he’d quite like to see the White City of Minas Tirith, though it sounds unfathomably big to a small Hobbit, and return to Rivendell, where he had once felt so at peace. He thinks about going West as well, past the Shire and the Tower Hills towards Mithlond, where the Elves are said to have a beautiful port town. He could travel from there into Forlindon beyond the Blue Mountains, following the coast and becoming one of the few Hobbits to see the sea. And sometimes he even thinks about travelling East, past the edges of his maps and into the unknown.

It is a big world and Bilbo has only seen a small fraction of it, and there are times – times when Bilbo is at his most bleak – that he thinks about leaving Erebor and never coming back.

\--

Thorin is moaning in his sleep. It isn’t entirely unusual, and by this point Bilbo has learnt not to get too close because Thorin tends to move very quickly and abruptly when he wakes.

“Thorin,” he says instead, knowing that it doesn’t take too much noise to wake the king up. When he doesn’t stir, Bilbo repeats his name more loudly.

Thorin jerks upright very suddenly, his eyes snapping open. He looks around himself wildly, chest heaving as he gasps in sharp breaths, hands grasping at the blankets almost convulsively. He stills when he catches sight of Bilbo, shuddering out a long sigh.

“You’re alive,” he whispers. “You’re alive, oh thank Mahal.”

Bilbo frowns. “Of course I’m alive. Thorin, what are you talking about?”

“You were dead!” Thorin exclaims, hoarsely. “I killed you. I couldn’t stop myself and you fell!”

Bilbo’s blood runs cold. He’s realised what Thorin’s nightmare was about and he didn’t ever want to think back on that moment again. “You dream about that?” he asks, voice strained.

“Not usually,” chokes Thorin, raising a shaking hand to cover his eyes.

Bilbo looks at him, this proud king of dwarves who has ousted a dragon and reclaimed a homeland but now sits shivering in his bed like a leaf, unable to meet the eyes of the person he married. Bilbo looks at him and feels his own discomfort fade in favour of pity, though he knows Thorin would recoil from such a sentiment. He reaches for the jug he keeps on the nightstand, quickly filling a glass with water before turning back to Thorin.

“Here,” he says, holding out the glass. Thorin moves to take it, though his hand is shaking so badly that Bilbo ends up steadying the glass for him as he brings it towards his lips.

“It didn’t happen,” Bilbo murmurs, as he watches Thorin drink. “I’m alive, just like you said.”

Thorin makes a high, wounded sound as he finishes the water, his other hand fumbling on the bed until it grasps Bilbo’s arm tightly. Bilbo fights back a wince at the strength of Thorin’s grip.

“Shh,” he whispers again, leaning over to place the glass back on the nightstand. “It was a nightmare,” he says as he returns, tentatively beginning to rub slow circles over Thorin’s back. “It didn’t happen.”

Thorin nods and closes his eyes, taking a few deep breaths and visibly trying to calm himself down. After a few moments of quiet, punctuated only by the sound of unsteady breathing, Thorin suddenly lets go of Bilbo’s arm.

“Forgive me,” the king mutters, eyes open again but refusing to look at Bilbo. “I did not mean to grab you.”

“It’s fine,” Bilbo reassures. “Well, maybe don’t grip quite so tightly next time,” he amends with a small, wry smile, “but other than that it’s fine.”

But Thorin shakes his head, eyes wild and desperate once more. “It isn’t. You hate it. You told me. All this time I’ve been forcing you–” he chokes off and Bilbo stares at him in shock.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Thorin says, or tries to, because he’s still choking on his words. “I’m sorry for everything I’ve made you do.”

Bilbo realises then, very suddenly, that this goes far beyond guilt. The king doesn’t have to say it, it’s there in the way he won’t stop apologising, in the way he won’t meet Bilbo’s eyes, in the hunch of his shoulders and the crossing of his arms. He gasps for breath and claws at his own arms and that’s when Bilbo realises. _Thorin hates himself._

“I didn’t mean,” Bilbo starts, breaking off and taking in a deep breath of his own, because he wants to help, but he can’t do that unless he’s honest and he still isn’t sure how to talk to Thorin about this. “Yes, you’re right,” he tries, this time, “there are physical things that I really don’t like doing. But it was wrong of me to… say what I said.” He pauses, unsure if he’s really saying anything meaningful. “Look, we should talk about this another time, when we’re both feeling more at ease.”

Thorin makes another high sound in his throat and buries his head in his hands, shoulders shaking.

Bilbo hesitates for a moment, before kneeling up and wrapping his arms around Thorin in a hug. In another situation, Bilbo thinks he might it as much as Thorin is suggesting, but it’s always been much easier when Bilbo himself is the one initiating things. He feels Thorin stiffen, arms going rigid against his chest, but as Bilbo begins to smooth one of his hands over Thorin’s hair he feels that tension gradually give way, and arms finally move to circle Bilbo’s own waist. He holds Thorin like that for a long while, the king’s face pressed tightly against his shoulder, stuttering breaths slowly easing out to something more natural. After a time, Thorin raises his head, tentatively looking at Bilbo.

“You don’t mind this?” he asks, voice unusually quiet.

Bilbo rests his hands on Thorin’s shoulders, nodding and giving what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “I don’t dislike all touch, Thorin. I just like to know how and when I’m going to be touched.” He takes a deep breath. “You never give me any warning before you take my hand, and which can feel quite unpleasant.”

Thorin is refusing to meet his eyes again, so Bilbo returns his hands to the king’s hair and strokes his fingers gently through the long, dark locks. It is unexpectedly pleasant; Thorin’s hair is soft and silky, and running his hands through it reminds him of walking holidays in the Shire, when he had sometimes lain in the long grass of the Green Hill Country for hours at a time, relishing the sensation of it against his fingers and his toes. Thorin seems to find it soothing too, as Bilbo hoped he would, and he leans his head ever so slightly further into Bilbo’s hands.

“Let’s not talk about this now,” says Bilbo. “We both need sleep.”

Thorin looks like he wants to refuse but he lies down when Bilbo urges him to, and doesn’t object to the small hands that continue to trace patterns through his hair. It takes a while, but eventually his eyes slip shut and his breathing lengthens into the rhythm of sleep. Bilbo removes his hands then, tucking them beneath his chin as he closes his eyes and settles down to sleep as well.

In the morning he will wake to the sound of Thorin’s quiet snoring as sunlight filters in through the curtains and, though a quick look at the hourglass tells him it’s still early, Bilbo will realise that this is the first time since their marriage that either of them has managed to sleep past sunrise.

\--

He ditched his Dwarven clothes a while ago, in a fit of anger and frustration. Only occasionally does he consent to wear them – for formal events – and he ignores all the bewildered looks thrown in his direction when he walks down the corridors in his new clothing. He must look out of place, he thinks, barefooted with his cropped trousers, shirt and waistcoat, all commissioned from a boutique in Dale; some Dwarves likely even feel outraged that he’s chosen what they consider to be Mannish clothing over what he already had.

But he’s a Hobbit amongst a mountain of Dwarves. Bilbo reasons that he’s going to look out of place whatever he wears, so he may as well do it in something he likes wearing.

\--

Mirkwood is more welcoming than he remembers, though Bilbo recognises that this is probably because he actually has been welcomed this time. He’s been given rooms at the top of the palace, which are much lighter and airier than the dank lower corridors Bilbo had spent weeks living in before, and the room Thranduil has set aside for negotiation is similarly pleasant.

All in all, Bilbo thinks the trip is going rather well. Thranduil does not seem to have softened much in demeanour but he is noticeably courteous to Bilbo, and after a few days of talks he eventually gives his permission for the Dwarves of the Erebor to use the forest path. Beyond that, Bilbo is permitted to go where he pleases and now that he has the opportunity to explore at his leisure, without fear of being caught, he spends long hours walking in the unexpectedly beautiful cave gardens and chatting to the red-haired captain who had saved Kíli’s life up on Ravenhill.

“You will miss this, I think,” says Tauriel, the day before Bilbo is due to leave. “From what you tell me there are no gardens like this in Erebor.”

Bilbo nods. “It’s been good to be amongst so much greenery again.” He pauses then, thinking about afternoons spent laughing with Kíli and his little garden in Dale that he’s become so fond of. He thinks of sitting quietly beside Thorin in front of the fire, as they have started doing in recent weeks, and of the pouch of pipeweed he’d discovered on his desk before he left for Mirkwood. “But the mountain has its perks too. I shall be glad to return.”

And to his own private surprise, Bilbo finds that he means it.

\--

Bilbo thinks he’s come to value Kíli above almost any of the dwarves in the mountain. The young prince spends less time with his brother now that the rebuild is well underway and Fíli has more duties to attend to. He seemed cast adrift without his brother to guide him, and at first Kíli had spent long hours sitting silently beside Bilbo and staring absently at his tea set. Bilbo initially thought it surprising that Kíli would choose to sit with him, in quiet rooms that barely ever received visitors. But then, perhaps the escape was precisely what Kíli had been after. It was comforting, Bilbo mused, to realise that he might not be the only person feeling lost in this new life at Erebor.

By now, the two of them have developed a rather entertaining routine of practicing Hobbit crafts together. Bilbo had started out by teaching Kíli some old Hobbitish curse words in the hopes of cheering him up, and somehow that evolved into showing the dwarven prince how to crochet. They end up giggling like children over Kíli’s first attempt at a doily, which is more like a mess of yarn than anything else. Though it’s nowhere near as funny as the time that Kíli takes off his shoes and socks, attaches successfully crocheted doilies to his feet and prances around the room shouting words like ‘mathom!’ and ‘oliphaunt!’ while proudly declaring himself a proper Hobbit. They are busy trying to fit Bilbo’s foot into Kíli’s boot when Thorin, Dwalin and Balin enter the room, and the bewildered stares they receive has Bilbo laughing so hard that his knitted dwarven beard falls off.

\--

Bilbo is in his garden, having stopped in Dale on his way back from Mirkwood, watering plants and chatting amicably with Fulya about his trip, when his friend suddenly coughs pointedly. He looks up, following her line of sight to see Thorin standing by his tomatoes.

“Thorin,” exclaims Bilbo, surprised to see him. He knew there would be a party of dwarves meeting him in Dale, but he hadn’t realised Thorin would be amongst them. With Orcrist strapped to his side and his grand, royal-blue overcoat resting across his shoulders – not quite managing to disguise the chainmail he still insists upon wearing – Thorin looks awkward and out of place amongst the daffodils and hyacinths. Bilbo suddenly has the absurd thought that he must have looked ridiculous tromping around the Shire trying to find Bag End. Quashing his urge to giggle, Bilbo sets down his watering can and heads over to the king while Fulya busies herself with tending to the raspberries.

“I had business here today, so I came down with party sent to meet you,” Thorin says, when Bilbo is close enough to hear easily. “Bard told me you were here in your garden. I thought I’d say hello.”

“Hello, then,” says Bilbo, with a small grin and a raised eyebrow. Thorin smiles back, but it looks uncomfortable on his face, and as they lapse into silence Bilbo remembers that the two of them struggle to make conversation these days. He casts around quickly for a topic.

“What do you think of the garden?” Bilbo asks, mentally congratulating himself on finding something that should be easy to talk about.

Of course, he hadn’t accounted for the fact that dwarves take less interest in plants than hobbits do. Thorin looks around and takes in the flowers with a frown, clearly unsure how he’s supposed to judge such a thing.

“It’s very pleasant,” he says eventually, nodding in a way that seems more cautious than assertive.

He shouldn’t find it funny, because Thorin would no doubt take offence at being laughed at, but Bilbo doesn’t think he’s ever seen him so out of his element before, and he can’t help but feel very fond all of a sudden. He bites his lip to stifle any laughter and decides to take pity on the king.

“Here,” he says, smiling. “Let me talk you through it.”

As they meander slowly through the garden Thorin seems to gradually become less awkward. He listens attentively even as Bilbo tells him about soil consistency and weeding, and Bilbo feels himself relaxing too, immensely satisfied to _finally_ be able to talk to a dwarf about gardening and have them pay attention.

“Did you plant the acorn, in the end?” Thorin asks, when they come to a stop next to some strawberries. Bilbo smiles, flattered that he had remembered.

“I did, as a matter of fact,” he says, leading Thorin over to the centre of the garden where the sapling sits.

Thorin stares at it in puzzlement. “I thought it was supposed to be an oak tree?”

Bilbo giggles before he can stop himself. “Yes, but oak trees are quite big, aren’t they? It takes a while for them to grow.”

“Oh,” says Thorin, cheeks reddening a little. He looks around at the purple and pink flowers that surround the sapling at a distance.

“You gave me flowers like these.”

“Yes, I thought they were appropriate,” says Bilbo, pleased that he had noticed. “They’re called oakleaf geraniums. They represent friendship.”

Thorin blinks then looks up at him, eyes crinkling and lips pulling upward ever so slightly, and Bilbo can’t help but smile back.

“Do hobbits give meaning to all flowers?” Thorin asks curiously, after a moment of comfortable silence.

“Oh yes. That’s why it’s important to plan out a bouquet of flowers carefully – they need to represent the message you want to send as accurately as possible.”

Thorin hums thoughtfully. “So you give flowers for things other than apologies?”

“Well, of course! Can you think of a better gift?” When Thorin opens his mouth Bilbo quickly adds, “Actually, don’t answer that!”

The king looks far more amused than he has any right to.

 _“Hobbits_ think they’re wonderful gifts, no matter what dwarves might think,” Bilbo continues. “We give the most elaborate bouquets out at weddings and naming ceremonies, to wish for happiness and prosperity.”

Thorin goes oddly still, the tension from when he arrived seems to have returned. “You should have said something.”

Bilbo frowns. “Said what?”

“There were no flowers at our wedding.”

Bilbo stares at him. He honestly hadn’t even thought about it. “Well, it doesn’t really matter that much. It was a dwarven wedding, after all.”

“But you’re a hobbit. You just told me that it’s an important part of your culture.”

“It is. But honestly, I don’t mind Thorin. It’s not like getting married was something I ever planned to do anyway.”

Thorin still looks contrite, so Bilbo makes a snap decision and leans down to pluck one of the geraniums from its stem. Before Thorin has the chance to object Bilbo is pushing the flower into his hair, securing it behind the ear.

“There,” says Bilbo, leaning back to admire his own handiwork. “Now you have a proper Hobbit wedding gift.”

Thorin stares at him, seemingly at a loss for words.

“I suppose I should really have made you a crown,” Bilbo continues, thoughtfully. “But then, you have one already.”

Thorin blinks a few times, then abruptly turns on his heel and marches out of the garden. It’s a disappointing end to what had been a pleasant conversation but Bilbo decides not to be offended, well aware by now that Thorin finds it difficult to deal with being wrong-footed – and also probably still feels guilty, which can’t help matters – and merely shrugs at Fulya when she raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

It’s only later that evening, once Bilbo has returned to the mountain and is sitting in the council chamber waiting to give a report of his trip, that he sees the king again. He doesn’t notice immediately, but when Thorin suddenly turns his head Bilbo realises that the flower is still there.

\--

Perhaps the strangest thing to come from Bilbo’s negotiation efforts is that he has Dwarves working for him now. There are only five of them in total, all young enough that their beards are still short, and a couple of them work as runners for other people too, but it still makes Bilbo feel like he has an odd sort of following.

They all seemed a bit prickly and stand-offish at first, which had grated on Bilbo more than he’d let on, assuming that they were upset they’d been ordered to work with the newly appointed Head of Foreign Relations – who was, himself, an outsider – rather than doing something a bit more hands-on. Of course, when Balin had merely chuckled at his complaints and said, _those lads are quiet because they’re in awe of you, Your Royal Highness,_ Bilbo had found himself a little less angry.

After that he had resolved to be friendly and welcoming, and nowadays Bilbo completes his work to the pleasant chatter of young Dwarves. They distract him from work sometimes too, and he really shouldn’t let them but Bilbo finds that it is much better than sitting alone at the top of the mountain, like he used to.

\--

Bilbo is at his desk in their private rooms, drafting a letter to Thranduil, when Thorin pokes his head through the door.

“Are you busy?” asks the king.

Bilbo weighs that up for a moment. “Yes but it isn’t urgent, if you need me for something?”

Thorin beckons to him, then turns on his heel and Bilbo has to resist the swell of irritation at Thorin for just expecting him to follow. His ire cools a little when he finds the king dawdling in the corridor outside, his strides slow enough that Bilbo can keep up easily.

“Where are we going?” Bilbo asks.

“You’ll see,” says Thorin, and only grins when Bilbo gives him a quizzical look.

They walk deep into the mountain, to dark, unstable tunnels where the restoration work still hasn’t been finished. Bilbo scrunches his nose when a helmet is placed on his head, so large that it droops over his eyes unless he holds it back. He hears a short chuckle from beside him and shoots Thorin a glare, once he can see again.

“It’ll be worth it,” the king promises, snagging a torch from the wall, and Bilbo huffs out a sigh but nonetheless follows when he starts walking.

The tunnel they take seems to slope downwards, and they follow it for a good long while until Bilbo thinks they must be very far underground. Eventually they come to some kind of opening, and though Bilbo can’t see very well, he thinks they must be in a sort of cavern. Thorin stops then, stooping to drop the torch by the end of the tunnel, and when he moves away Bilbo has a moment of quiet, irrational panic that he’s going to be trapped here on his own in the dark.

“May I take your hand?” Thorin’s voice comes from somewhere beside his left ear, and Bilbo almost jumps. “I wish to guide you.”

It takes a moment but when the words sink in Bilbo forgets his panic, forgets that he can’t see a thing in this darkness and that he doesn’t have the stone-sense of the dwarves to help him navigate. All he can think is that _Thorin remembered_. Thorin _asked_ for permission, just like Bilbo has always wanted him to. It’s hardly revolutionary, but Bilbo suddenly feels so relieved that he thinks he might cry.

“Yes,” he says instead. “Alright.”

Thorin’s hand engulfs his, as it has on so many occasions, but it feels gentle rather than grasping when it lightly tugs him in the right direction. They walk for a few paces before Thorin stops again and tugs him down into a crouch.

“Look,” he says, waving his and Bilbo’s joined hands in the direction that he presumably means. Bilbo spends a moment staring blankly into the darkness before he notices little specks of faintly orange light in front of him. He leans forward to take a closer look, and realises that he must be staring at the wall of the cavern, and the lights actually seem to be shaped like leaves.

“Are these plants?”

“Yes,” says Thorin, and Bilbo notices distractedly that it sounds like he’s smiling. “My people call them fireleaves, because of the way they shine.”

It’s an apt name, thinks Bilbo, in wonder. He can’t quite believe what he’s looking at; plants that grow from the walls of caves and _glow_.

“I was looking through some rebuild reports this morning,” Thorin continues, “and when I realised which tunnels had been made safe… Well, I thought you’d like to see them.”

“Oh, I do,” says Bilbo eagerly, tearing his eyes away from the leaves, to where he can just make out the shape of Thorin’s face in the dim light.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly, and when Thorin returns with a quiet _you’re welcome_ , Bilbo fancies he can hear happiness in the king’s voice.

They leave the cavern after Bilbo has looked his fill, and return to the more populated sections of the mountain. A comfortable silence descends as they walk back together, and Thorin seems a good deal more relaxed than Bilbo has seen in a long time; he smiles easily and tips his head to those that bow as they walk past. And he does not take Bilbo’s hand again.

And before long, Bilbo finds himself smiling too.

\--

Bilbo isn’t sure exactly when it happened, but he sleeps better nowadays. So does Thorin for that matter; his nightmares have by no means disappeared, but they seem to be less frequent than they once were. Occasionally Bilbo wakes to find long, dark hair spilling over his shoulder, Thorin’s body tucked up close behind him. It’s an odd way to start the day, but it doesn’t bother him as much as it might. Sleeping together with someone in such an intimate setting still makes Bilbo uncomfortable in theory but in practice…

Well… It’s only Thorin, after all.

\--

As Consort Bilbo has always been expected to sit in on Council meetings, but where before it had seemed merely a formality, now that he’s in charge of foreign relations – to both Elves _and_ Men, he’s pleased to say – he actually has something to contribute. Though on this particular occasion it’s been tricky for _anyone_ to contribute, what with the way Ginnar – an old dwarf who works closely with Glóin in the Treasury – is droning on and on about tax collection.

It isn’t long before Bilbo finds his attention straying. His gaze wanders absentmindedly across the Council Room and quite by accident he catches Thorin’s eye. For a moment they stare at each other until the king looks very deliberately at Ginnar, then back at Bilbo again and rolls his eyes. Bilbo has to bite his lip to stop himself from giggling at the unexpected behaviour. Instead he controls himself and folds his arms across his chest, looking very sternly at Thorin, as if he were a parent scolding a young child. The king raises his eyebrows, but Bilbo can see the subtle smirk pulling at the corners of his lips.

He makes it his mission to see that smile in full, sitting up in his chair to make himself seem like an attentive listener and nodding his head importantly as if he concurs with Ginnar’s words. Thorin’s eyes dance with laughter and by this point Fíli, seated on Thorin’s left, has noticed what’s going and is trying to disguise his surprised snickering as a small coughing fit.

“Now it should be considered,” Ginnar is saying, in his slow fashion “that there are numerous types of coin in Erebor at present; the castar and tharni, our own sheckel of course, and then there are sceattas, pennies and–”

“Here, here,” interrupts Bilbo seriously and, though the rest of the room treats him to some very strange looks, he has to fight back a smug grin when he sees Thorin hide his mouth behind his hand.

The king falls into step beside him when they finally leave the council meeting, and Bilbo gives him a cheeky wink.

“You, Master Baggins,” says Thorin, quietly, “are a menace. I ought to make you compile a full report of Ginnar’s counsel, since you so thoroughly distracted me from hearing it.”

Bilbo laughs, and decides that it’s truly marvellous to discover Thorin’s playful side.

\--

Bilbo will never say it, but one of his most treasured memories from their journey to Erebor took place on a quiet night in Beorn’s hall. He doesn’t remember exactly what they were talking about to begin with, but he remembers sitting around the fire pit in a loose circle, arm jostling lightly against Thorin’s whenever he turned, when at some point the conversation turned to Glóin’s wife, and then to relationships in general. Kíli cheerfully told the story of a barmaid he had enjoyed a brief flirtation with before they left the Blue Mountains and Nori, to no one’s surprise, had a long and colourful history of romantic (or perhaps merely sexual, Bilbo wasn’t sure) entanglements which he described at great length.

“What about you, Bilbo?” Bofur had asked, after Balin finished reminiscing about an old flame. “D’you have a lad or lassie waiting for you back in that Shire o’ yours?”

“Oh, erm… No, not really,” said Bilbo, feeling like the eyes of the entire company were weighing heavily upon him.

“No stories then?” Fíli said, eagerly. Bilbo coughed a little, unsure what to say.

“Not that way inclined, are you?” Dori asked, and Bilbo blinked. “Well, me neither. There are far too many other things to be getting along with than to be worrying about any of that.”

The conversation moved on then, to Bombur’s wife and children, but Bilbo found he had a hard time paying much attention. After a few moments, Thorin leaned over.

“You seem surprised,” he said quietly. Bilbo swallowed, thankful that Thorin had noticed and yet reluctant to really talk about it. He nodded, rather than say anything.

“Is it truly so rare, amongst your people?” Thorin continued. “To go without such things?”

For a moment Bilbo wondered at how perceptive the king could be. “How did you..?”

“I have travelled along the Great East Road, and stayed at Michel Delving before. Your reaction now would seem to confirm what I observed then.”

Bilbo turned to watch the flames leap and sparkle in the fire pit. “Yes,” he said eventually. “It is very rare. Unheard of, in fact.”

He said no more after that, while the dwarf beside him presumably let his words sink in.

“There is no shame in it,” Thorin said suddenly. “It is quite common amongst dwarves, and amongst dwarves is where you are now.”

Bilbo twisted around to stare at him and found Thorin smiling – a soft, genuine smile, like the one he’d given Bilbo all those nights ago at the top of the Carrock.

When he went to sleep that night on a thick mound of soft hay, Bilbo had thought back on Thorin’s words with no small amount of confusion and something that felt a lot like hope.

 _You know now_ , an oddly calm voice in the back of Bilbo’s head had whispered. _You know how it feels to be accepted._

\--

Dwarven music is lovely, Bilbo decides. It’s entirely unlike anything he’s every heard before – certainly nothing like the bawdy songs the Company had sung on the road – but no less beautiful for it. And Thorin plays it well, which Bilbo thinks probably helps.

Durin’s Day is, in part, a family celebration, Bilbo has learnt; there’s to be a formal banquet later with all the Dwarves in the mountain, and Bilbo will be expected to wear his formal attire and the Consort’s crown which is too heavy for him. But for now he’s gathered in a small room with the thirteen companions who had once made up their Company, while a Dwarven king makes music for them all.

He’s never heard Thorin play the harp before. Dwarves keep many secrets and their music – this kind of music, not the drunken kind sung in merriment but the haunting, reverent kind – is not usually played for outsiders. Bilbo had been a little stunned they wanted him to hear it, to be honest. But then, when he’d asked if they were sure, his Dwarves had merely smiled at him fondly and Balin had simply said, _I think we can all agree that you’ve earned it, laddie._

And he’s glad, because sandwiched in between Bofur and Dwalin, with Kíli sat at his feet letting Bilbo fiddle absentmindedly with his hair, with Thorin in front of him, eyes closed as he sings in a deep and moving baritone, Bilbo can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be.

\--

Sometimes Bilbo wonders what it would be like to be in love with Thorin. Would they blushingly murmur compliments to one another on sleepy mornings or compose soppy love poetry to be recited on anniversaries? Would they kiss one another in public without restraint or reserve like he’s seen other dwarven couples do? Would his heart skip a beat when Thorin smiled at him and would he go to bed each night knowing that the person beside him is everything he ever wanted in life?

Bilbo thinks he wants it to be like that sometimes. It would probably make things easier, at the very least. And he should be good at the whole falling in love and having children thing – after all, that’s just what Hobbits do, isn’t it?

But there’s a difference between wanting something and wanting to want it.

When he’s at his most philosophical he thinks about what being ‘in love’ actually means. It’s both inaccurate and unfair, he reasons, that such a complex and revered term should be set aside for only for romantic feelings; Bilbo doesn’t have any of those, but he doesn’t see why that means he can’t fall in love. He yearns for companionship, like most other people, and there’s no reason his feelings should be less valid just because they come in a slightly different shape to everyone else’s. Being in love should be about the depth of feeling one has, not the form that feeling takes.

And really, when he thinks about it like that…

\--

“It’s strange, isn’t it,” Bilbo muses, passing his pipe over to Thorin and stretching his toes so they catch the warmth of the fire. “We’ve been married for a year.”

Thorin gives a noncommittal hum around the pipe and settles back into his own armchair. “At least I managed to dissuade the council from throwing us that ridiculous party.”

Bilbo snorts. “True. I was worried you’d have to kiss me again.”

It’s a mark of how far they’ve come in the past year that Thorin tenses only for a second at Bilbo’s words. “You know I’m sorry about that.”

“I do. All the same, you did draw it out a bit. If we ever do need to do it again I’d rather you give me space afterwards than stay so close.”

“Oh,” says Thorin, and Bilbo looks over to see him frowning. “I thought… I had hoped to reassure you. Touching foreheads like that is only ever done amongst close kin. I wanted to show you that I valued you, even if we married for political reasons.”

“Oh,” Bilbo echoes. It’s a touching sentiment, although he wishes Thorin had simply said as much initially rather than express it with physical intimacy.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realise how much distress it would cause you. Forgive me.” Thorin’s voice is strained in a way that it hasn’t been for a while, and it makes Bilbo force down his own surprise.

“I forgive you, Thorin,” he says firmly. “It’s in the past now anyway. It happened, we got married and we can’t change that.” He goes to pluck the pipe from Thorin’s fingers but pauses when the king looks at him hesitantly.

“I wouldn’t change it,” Thorin says in a very quiet voice, and Bilbo stares at him. “I mean… I’m glad we’re married. I would obviously change the parts that were unpleasant for you, but…” He coughs awkwardly. “You are very dear to me, Bilbo. I value your advice and your company.”

Bilbo keeps staring. This is the second unexpectedly heartfelt confession of the evening and he feels extremely wrong-footed.

“I never thought to share my life with someone,” Thorin continues. “Much less bind myself to another person through marriage. But the more time I spend with you, the more I find myself warming to the idea. Having someone to sit with during the evenings, someone who will joke with me and listen to my concerns… It is not unpleasant.”

By the time Thorin has finished Bilbo finds that his throat feels tight and his vision is a little blurry. He fishes a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes at his face a little, hoping to compose himself.

“Well,” he says eventually, voice a little wobbly as he looks Thorin in the eye again. “Thank you. You have exceptional timing; our anniversary is, of course, the proper day to say such things.”

It takes a moment for Thorin to catch on, but he chuckles softly when he realises he’s being teased. Bilbo can feel his own lips pulling upwards in an uncontrollable smile as he leans over to clasp Thorin’s hand, and the two of them gaze fondly at one another for a few beats. Eventually, with a gentle squeeze, Bilbo pulls away, snagging the pipe as he leans back in his armchair. Thorin rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling.

_Being in love should be about the depth of feeling one has, not the form that feeling takes._

_And really, when he thinks about it like that…_

Perhaps Bilbo might be falling in love with Thorin after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who stuck with this fic - I'm sorry I took so long with the second chapter, real life has just been horrendous for the past few months. So yeah, basically thanks for reading and thanks to everyone who left comments and kudos - it really brightens up my day! ^_^

**Author's Note:**

>  **Content Warning:** In particular there's one moment where someone who really, vehemently doesn't like kissing is made to kiss someone. If you want to avoid that bit then skip from, _Even so, there are some customs which are unalterable and, rather unfortunately, unavoidable_ up to, _Thorin does draw back eventually_. If you think there are any other warnings I should mention here, please let me know!
> 
> Also I have [tumblr!](http://lloydsglasses.tumblr.com) Come say hello! :)


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